Sing For ME
by ryanalicia
Summary: A/U with a grieving, newly divorced Christine arriving in New York to teach voice lessons at Julliard. The first night, she hears glorious music through her wall and then meets her mysterious, masked neighbor. As music draws them together, Raoul and Erik's own walls threaten to keep them apart.
1. Chapter 1

Sing for Me

By ryanalicia

CHAPTER ONE

Christine made her way around the moving boxes to a small spot she had cleared on the coffee table in her living room. She put down her grocery bag and pulled out a baguette, some cheese, a bunch of grapes, a bottle of wine, and one of the plastic cups out of the packet she had purchased. Dinner was served.

Outside her floor to ceiling windows, twilight streamed pink ribbons across the sky, and the Hudson River reflected them back to her eager eyes. She vowed to love this new place – new apartment, new city, new country. New York was her home now; there was no going back. Paris held nothing for her now but bitter memories.

She took a seat on the rug the moving men had been nice enough to roll out for her, and opened the bottle of wine. It probably wasn't wise; she knew her drinking had contributed to Raoul's willingness to give her the divorce. But she'd vowed to turn over a new leaf in her new home, and she could think of no better way to christen her new life.

Behind all the boxes was a nice sized, one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of her building with an area off the living room for use as a study. That area she intended to make her music room. Somewhere in a long, flat box was her electric keyboard. The sound was good enough for her to practice with. It wasn't like she could really play, but she could pick out pitches and chords well enough to be a vocal coach.

And Julliard had been glad to have her – a real opera singer.

Well, an opera singer no more. Music in her life had died two years ago, along with her son. Now, she was trying to bring it back.

As if obeying her silent command, before she could clear away the remnants of her meal, she heard music. Touching, glorious music played by a piano virtuoso. She wondered if it was a Julliard student. Whomever it was, it seemed she had a musical neighbor.

She frowned, wondering if her neighbor's practice would interfere with her own. And if his piano carried through their shared wall, surely her voice would as well. They would just have to learn to tolerate each other. Though if he intended to play all night, she'd have to have a word with him. Sleep was her only respite from grief, and she took it seriously.

She carried on with her unpacking, looking specifically for the box of linens so she could put sheets on her bed. The music was even louder in the bedroom, as that was where the common walls met. His living room must abut her bedroom.

The bed wasn't the one she'd slept in for the last ten years; that one remained at the chateau in Paris. She could have packed up some of the guest furniture, but she wanted everything to be new. She'd given Raoul the house and all its contents in exchange for a totally cash divorce settlement. She'd no longer be a countess, but at least she wouldn't have to live as a pauper – or try to live on the salary paid to a vocal coach. No, she was comfortably taken care of.

She wound her way back into the kitchen and started unpacking dishes and glasses. All the boxes had been placed in the right rooms thanks to the labels on their outsides so she didn't have to go far. It was just tedious work to unwrap each piece. The dishes were the only thing she had brought with her, aside from her clothes and her keyboard. The dishes had belonged to her grandmother, and she'd no wish to leave them with Raoul, who couldn't care less.

The piano from next door kept her company in her thankless task, and she began to hum along when he came to an aria she recognized. Her voice was so long unused that it sounded strange to her. Would singing come back naturally? She knew she'd have to work at it, but she wasn't sure yet how big a task it would be.

The next target was to unpack all her clothes. She had scads of them, many for social functions that she was sure she would never wear again. That wasn't her life anymore. Now she was a simple music teacher.

When that was finished and she'd broken down the boxes and left them next to the trash chute down the hall, she declared victory for the day and decided to take a hot bath.

As if he could sense the change in her mood, her invisible accompanist changed to slower, more languishing sets. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to just drift in the water and in the music. It was comforting when little else was, and she suddenly began to wonder about the mystery man behind her wall. She didn't know when she'd become certain it was a man. The music just had that feeling – a certain aggressive perfection. Would he be a prima donna? A recluse? A self-taught prodigy or the product of an endless stream of the best music schools?

She dried herself off and donned a long t-shirt and climbed into bed. It was eleven o'clock, and he still played, but abruptly switched to a lullaby. Christine had the strange sensation that he knew her every action. She laughed at herself, settled in, and went to sleep accompanied by light strains of Brahms.

The next day, she made it easily through her first day at Julliard. She had only three students, each for an hour and a half. One was a goth girl, Astia, who dressed all in black, had black hair with a turquoise streak down the side and had a pierced lip. Christine had made her get rid of the lip stud. The girl aspired to be a pop singer, and was attending Julliard solely to mollify her parents. Christine had told her to save the lip stud for her music videos. None of which is to say she didn't have a lovely voice; she did. It was deep with a respectable high range and had a sort of bluesy quality to it. Christine hoped to expand her musical horizons some over the course of their time together.

Next was a thin, plain, girl with sandy hair who aspired to be an opera singer. Her name was, appropriately, Sandy, and she couldn't stop telling Christine how honored she was to be there. Christine gave her a workout, pleased to find a lovely, lilting soprano. Not strong enough yet, but that was where Christine came in.

Finally, her last student of the day had been a young Asian man, Kee. He was tall and thin, and wore a hot pink linen jacket over a black t-shirt and skinny black jeans. He didn't have a career direction in mind, but he had a beautiful, mellow tenor that Christine aimed to explore with him.

With her day complete, Christine stopped for Chinese take-out and had dinner again on the floor in front of her coffee table. There was a proper table with four chairs that she'd managed to fit into the kitchen, but sitting there only heightened her feelings of isolation. The coffee table with the tv on in the background was better. Then she tackled the remaining boxes in the living room – pictures, vases, lamps – all things to make her new house a home. And nothing to remind her of the past.

With her sofa finally clear of boxes, she sat down, propped her feet up on the coffee table and grabbed the remote. A 'chick-flick' was what she needed – an excuse for a good cry.

Two hours later, she noticed upon entering her bedroom that her neighbor had switched to the violin. A Mozart concerto convinced her he was equally adept on that instrument as on the piano. She stood staring at her bedroom wall through the entire piece, longing to see the source of such a beautiful serenade.

Then something happened that Christine would later put down to the trying effects of her first day back being exposed to music and her heightened emotional state. Her neighbor began the introduction to the love aria from _Tristan and Isolde_, a tale of doomed passionate lovers. Christine couldn't help herself; she began to sing. She started softly, letting the notes merely echo out on her breath. But at the first crowning high note, she laid her hand on her bedroom wall and began to sing in earnest. There was a noticeable hitch in his playing on the other side, but he recovered his place in an instant. She noticed his playing had a new passion, and she tried her best to rise to the occasion, straining her voice that had gone so long unused.

When the aria was over, she put both hands against the wall and slumped to the floor. It seemed music still had her in its grip. No more sounds came through the wall, and Christine surmised her unwilling accompanist had decided to call it a night. She promptly decided to do the same.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning she stumbled into her kitchen after a fitful sleep. Memories of the accident had haunted her dreams – the accident that had killed her son. He'd been gone two years, but the ache of his loss had barely faded. Even now, many of her nights were sleepless.

Coffee made its obligatory dripping noise as she turned to get milk out of the fridge. It was only then she noticed the envelope. It lay on the rug in front of her door, obviously pushed in by someone from the outside. Probably just a notice from management, she thought.

But when she picked it up, there was no logo on the front. It was plain white. Curious, she unsealed it and found a single ticket to that night's performance of the New York Symphony with accompanying pianist Erik March.

Christine had picked one of her better gowns for the occasion, and was glad of it when she realized her seat was center orchestra, about seven rows back. With a perfect view of the piano.

It wasn't until the second piece that he came out. He emerged from the right hand side of the stage and strode determinedly toward the instrument, never looking at the audience. He didn't look like a pianist; he was tall and broad shouldered, but she noticed his hands were long and narrow. He had a musician's hands. The only other thing she noticed was that he was handsome, in a rough sort of way. That image wasn't helped by the fact that he seemed to be scowling.

She was sure any imagined slight was forgotten, however, as the man began to play. After the first three notes, his scowl became an expression of deepest absorption. She'd always secretly thought the piano a rough instrument compared to the accompanying tones of the strings and woodwinds in the orchestra, but this man was changing her mind. She recognized one of Mozart's more well-known concertos, but Erik played as if the piano were the only instrument on the stage. She felt the eyes of the audience link with hers in their focus on him. He became the music, and everything else faded into the background as the lyrical became the romantic became the heartrending. Then everything was beautiful again, and Erik stood up. In that moment, he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

She wondered as she watched him when he'd become Erik to her. And she was now sure this was her virtuoso neighbor. There could be no other explanation.

Once again, he refused to face the crowd. He made a curt bow over the piano and then walked off the stage opposite from the way he'd come.

She felt foolish, but she lingered in the lobby until the last of the other patrons had exited the concert hall. Just as she was about to leave, a uniformed attendant brought her a note.

_Have dinner with me? Antoine's on 70__th__ and Central Park West. Twenty minutes? - Erik_

She hailed the last cab in the queue and told the driver the address. He dropped her off in about eight minutes, and she went in and gave the maitre'd Erik's name. His eyebrows rose as he ran his finger down a list of names in a large book.

"You're right," he said, sounding surprised. "Here it is. Obviously he's not arrived yet, so I'll show you to the table and direct him to you when he gets here." He grabbed two menus and began weaving his way to a dimly lit table in a back corner of the room. "He requested this table especially," the man said. "Would you care for a beverage while you wait?"

Christine ordered a sweet white wine and sat studying the other diners. Many were, like herself, dressed in after-theater finery. White tablecloths and black-clad waiters abounded, and each of the small tables boasted a candle and a different kind of flower. Unlike the reputation of many restaurants in the city, here the tables were a respectable distance apart.

Precisely ten minutes later, she saw Erik come through the front door, and she felt her eyes widen. He was exactly as she remembered except that the right side of his face was covered by a white half-mask. She remembered his odd stance on stage, never facing the audience. What could be so terrible that he had to wear a mask in public, she asked herself. What could have happened to this man?

His eyes met hers before he approached the host. They were a searing blue, and she felt suddenly self-conscious.

She watched him approach, following the maitre'd. He was graceful as a cat, maneuvering his large frame between the tables. The maitre'd pulled out the chair opposite her, and Erik sat down, folding the tails of his coat underneath him.

When the maitre'd departed, Erik extended his hand across the table to her. "We haven't been properly introduced," he said. "I'm Erik."

"Christine," she replied, taking his hand and trying not to stare at the mask. "Christine de…Daae." She felt the curious glances of some of the other patrons.

"Ah," he said. "That explains it. Your voice is captivating, but I believe you have left opera?"

She drew back her hand and nodded. "For…personal reasons…I left music entirely."

He shuddered. "I know no solace but music. I cannot imagine living without it."

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him. "I wasn't really living."

There was a long silence.

"Perhaps we should order dinner?" he proposed.

Christine smiled and opened her menu. "You're right. I don't even know you. It's hardly the time to discuss my problems."

A waiter came and took their orders, leaving them again in silence.

"I know my appearance is unexpected," Erik said, broaching what she'd assumed was a forbidden topic. "I seldom go out in public except for my performances."

"Then I'm honored by your invitation. To both the performance and dinner. I don't think I've ever seen a performance like yours tonight. It made me quite breathless."

She saw a sudden light flare in his eyes, but it disappeared in an instant. "Thank you. And I must confess my motive – I want you to sing for me." He smiled. "As often as humanly possible. Your aria was stunning, even through a wall. I need to hear it again."

She gave a self-conscious laugh. "You heard the first notes I've sung in two years. I've no doubt I could give you better."

That light reappeared in his eyes. "Any song from you would be a gift indeed."

She was relieved by the sudden appearance of the soup of the day, and Erik seemed to notice because he changed the subject.

"Is it too personal to ask what brings you to New York?"

She shook her head. "No. It's no secret. My divorce was finalized last month, and my husband was the last of my ties to France. I have no other family there. So New York is my new beginning."

"I would very much like to be a part of that beginning," he said.

She wasn't sure how much to read into that remark. For the second time, she wondered what he hid behind the mask.

"What occupation have you chosen to pursue in your new home – or have you chosen yet?" he asked quickly, as if realizing she was at a loss to his previous question.

"I'm teaching voice lessons at Julliard," she answered. "Today was my first day."

He raised his glass to her. "Then congratulations on what I'm sure was a success."

She smiled and touched her glass to his. "Thank you. It did go rather well."

The rest of their dinner passed in companionable conversation, with Erik telling her about the city – mostly about the symphony and the opera, which seemed to be the domain of his life.

"Shall we walk home?" he asked when the check had been paid.

Home. A new concept in a new place. "That would be lovely," she replied. Outside the restaurant, she reflexively put her hand on his arm.

He looked down, an arched eyebrow relaying his surprise.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't think."

"No," he said, hastily shaking his head. "It's just that most people keep their distance from me.

She frowned and put her hand back in its place.

He gave a faint "hmm" and then began leading her back to their building. It was late, and there weren't many people on the streets. The park behind the stone wall on their left was dark and a bit foreboding. She guessed it suited a midnight stroll with a masked companion.

When they reached her door, she disentangled her arm from his. "Thank you, again," she said.

He shook his head at her. "Don't end the evening quite yet, I beg of you." He gestured toward his door. "Come in and sing with me."

With him. Surely he didn't sing, too.

She nodded and followed him into his apartment. Except it wasn't an apartment like hers, it was a penthouse. He'd obviously bought three or four apartments and knocked down the walls between them. The room they stepped into was large and dominated by a grand piano. Black and white tiles delineated the foyer and continued over to the piano. White carpet covered the living area which contained two small end tables with lamps, a red crushed velvet sofa, and a string of bookshelves bigger than her apartment. There was a swinging door to her left and, further in, a hallway that she guessed disappeared into bedrooms. Against the far wall behind the piano stood a case she surmised contained his violin. There was sheet music on the piano, but Erik strode across the room, collected the pages, and placed them in the piano bench.

"You seem to know _Tristan and Isolde_," he said. "Do you know the duet?"

She nodded and slowly approached, coming to stand beside the piano as he took his seat.

She began and slowly closed her eyes to the music Erik played from his head. This was the song of passion between two doomed lovers, exclaiming their joyous love to the world and lamenting that they could only be together under cover of darkness.

When Erik's voice joined hers, she blinked her eyes open and stopped singing. He carried on without her, and she stood, spellbound, feeling every word in his glorious voice. It surrounded her and carried her away on a flood of sensation – a flood of beauty and of feeling. When she rejoined him at the chorus, she felt honored and inspired, and she sought to reach new heights as if to give him something he deserved.

When the piano fell silent, she felt bereft and empty.

Erik was looking at her with a longing she didn't understand. She knew the look on her face was one of wonder.

"You need practice," he said, a sudden mask coming down over his features.

She wasn't offended. "I warned you of that," she replied.

He looked down at the piano keys. "Perhaps you would consent to practice here…with me?"

She was surprised by his sudden hesitancy. How could he imagine she would refuse?

She nodded. "I'd love to," she said.

He raised his head and looked at her. "Tomorrow after dinner? Say eight o'clock?"

"You could just knock on the wall to let me know you're ready," she said with a smile.

He grinned back at her. "I'd think my musical presence in your bedroom would be quite enough."

"I don't think we're at the stage where we should be discussing your presence in my bedroom," she said with mock curtness.

The hard mask again took over his features. "Quite right," he said. "Please forgive me. I wasn't presuming."

She laughed and saw him look up in surprise. "You can presume I'd let you keep me in here in a cage if it meant I could hear you sing and play every day. I fear I'm a hostage to you already."

He sighed and looked suddenly serious. "As am I, Christine Daae. But I think this is enough for one night." He gestured toward the door, and while it wasn't rude, Christine worried over his sudden mood swings.

"So I'll see you tomorrow night?" she asked as she crossed his threshold.

He nodded. "Very definitely." Then he shut the door, and Christine was left standing in the hallway, pondering the very odd turn of events her new life had already taken.

That night, she slept well, but her dreams were interlaced with images of lovers in the dark and the masked face of a man with beautiful hands.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

By the night of their third lesson, Christine had to accept that his music brought her a kind of ecstasy. They both had the singular ability to completely lose themselves, but, for her at least, he provided an anchor. The music wove threads of emotion between them, and she found herself unable to deny that she found his voice decidedly erotic. His playing enflamed her soul, but his voice enflamed her body. She couldn't explain it, but it had a physical effect on her. That night, she found herself lying in bed, remembering, touching, and putting her hand to her mouth lest he hear her scream his name.

In the morning, she vowed to get herself under control. Erik had never been anything but professional with her. In fact, he'd seemed a little colder to her than the night they first met. She wondered how much room his professional life left for his personal life. Certainly, so far, he seemed to be spending all his free time with her, but he hadn't mentioned whether they'd practice over the weekend.

That night, she knocked on his door at seven instead of eight. He came to the door in only dark pants and a soft, white linen shirt. He'd always worn jackets when she was here before.

She sighed at the thought of touching the smooth skin revealed at his open collar.

"You're early," he said drily.

She shook herself. "Oh, right," she said. She held up a bottle of wine. "I had the selfish desire to see the sunset out of your magnificent array of windows. I thought we could have wine and just order some takeout before we got to work."

"I…of course. That's fine."

He stood back to let her in.

"Do you have a wine opener?" she called out.

He approached, took the bottle from her, and disappeared behind a swinging door she could only assume led into his kitchen.

When he returned he had the open bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. He walked over to his sofa, which faced the windows without interruption. There was no television. Bookshelves lined the wall behind her, but there was nothing to impair the view. Already the sky was turning pink and lights were visible on the river's opposite shore.

"Have a seat," he said, putting the two glasses down on the coffee table and pouring some wine for each of them.

She tucked herself in on one end of the couch and reached for a glass.

Eric took the other one and sat at the other end of the sofa. It didn't leave them too far apart; it was really more of a loveseat than a sofa. Its high back was topped with a gold wooden decorative edge. She leaned back and looked at him.

"I thought you wanted to see the sunset," he said.

She castigated herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't staring. I mean…not at your mask."

He gave a wry laugh. "I've never considered anything else about myself to be stare-worthy."

"No, I was just wondering about you. Where did you grow up?"

He sighed. "I'm sure you have more than just the one question. I'll warn you now – the answers will all be unpleasant."

That set her back a moment. "Please don't feel that you have to answer."

"March," he said. "That's my last name because that's the month of my birth. My mother – or someone – dropped me off at a Baptist orphanage when I was two weeks old. They told me I came in a cardboard box with a blanket and a piece of paper with the word 'Erik' on it. Miss Conners christened me Erik March.

"Oh my god."

"That was in rural Tennessee. The women who ran the orphanage weren't Catholic, but they still operated on a strict hierarchy. Their leader was a woman named Toller. She called me the "devil's child" and refused to speak to me or look at me the entire sixteen years I was there. It was she who made my first mask – not for me, but to protect the other children. I think the only reason she let me stay was because I increased the Christmas donations by playing and being in the choir. I know more Baptist hymns than you can imagine."

"So – whatever your deformity – you were born with it?"

He nodded. "God's handiwork – unless you believe Miss Toller."

"Were you always trapped there? Did you never go out to school?"

He laughed bitterly. "I went to public high school long enough to get into three fights with older boys trying to take off my mask. In the third one, I stabbed the ringleader and put him in the hospital. Obviously I was expelled.

"After that, Miss Toller went on a campaign to collect a scholarship for me to go away to a private music school. Her hatred fueled her determination, and she succeeded in sending me away for good. It was the best thing that ever happened to me, of course. I learned blues, show tunes, pop music, classical and opera. There, once they'd heard me, no one even came close to me. No one picked a fight. I was shunned, but in the most polite way. In the end, all that mattered was that I got the chance to audition with a touring opera company. I played in the opera orchestra for years – violin and piano. Then I got an open audition to play violin with a symphony in California. The violin turned into piano solos. Then I moved to New York and became the man you see before you. Or rather the monster."

She sat silently, dimly aware of the changing colors outside the window, but focused on the open, expectant expression on Erik's face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've known sorrow, but I've also known joy. I see how much the music means to you – is it the only thing that brings you joy?"

"It is my one companion."

Christine thought that was the saddest thing she'd ever heard.

"You've heard my sordid tale," he said. "Now tell me yours. Tell me why you're really here."

She put her glass of wine on the table and knotted her fingers together. It was a fair request.

"Ten years ago, I was an opera understudy, and I married my childhood sweetheart. He was a minor member of the French nobility and his family was well off. We were happy."

She picked up her glass and took a sip, replacing it on the table. "The year after we were married, we had a son." She looked at Erik. "He was my life – even more than music."

"What happened?" Erik asked into the long silence that had settled between them.

"I wanted to introduce him to horseback riding. I loved it, and I had loved it as a child. My husband, Raoul, was against it. He thought Gerard was too young. I persuaded him."

She looked down at her lap. "About a year after we started riding together, we were out in the farmland behind the chateau. Gerard was behind me, and I didn't know anything until I heard him scream. I turned, but there was nothing I could do. The horse had seen a snake and reared, throwing Gerard. It was just a turn of fate, the way he fell. Any other day, he might have been fine, but that day…the fall broke his neck instantly and he died in my arms. I had to carry my dead son back to our home and explain to my husband."

She looked up to meet his gaze. "Neither of us was the same after that. I couldn't forgive myself – I stopped singing, I stopped going out, I started drinking alone in my room to pass the days. Every time I looked at Raoul I could see that he couldn't forgive me either. We both mourned our son, but we did it alone, from separate wings of an empty house.

"After two years, I decided that, like the loss of our son, the rift between Raoul and myself would never heal. I asked for a divorce that he willingly gave. I moved out of the house while things got settled, and then I moved here."

When he didn't say anything, Christine slid over to sit next to him. She tucked her feet up under her and pulled his arm around her shoulders. He went stiff for a moment, but then relaxed and gently held her. Christine linked her fingers through his and stared out at the setting sun.

They sat there until darkness fell. She could barely see across the room, but still neither of them moved, not even to turn on a lamp. She'd begun to like the feel of him against her – his chest against her shoulder, his thigh next to hers. He felt solid, strong. She wondered where he found strength. Was it only from music? Could music shore up her shattered soul?

She sighed and leaned more into him.

"Would you still like dinner?" he asked.

She laughed. "I'd forgotten," she said.

"I think we should skip the music for tonight."

She turned her head to look up at him. His blue eyes gleamed back at her. "Okay. I guess I've had all the emotional fun I can stand for one night."

"I'm glad you could tell me," he said.

"It wasn't so hard. You've seen inside my soul already. You just didn't know why the hurt was there."

He tightened his arm around her, and she relished the feel of him.

"Can you look at me the same way after tonight?" he asked.

It hadn't occurred to her and she drew back in surprise. "Why would I see you differently?"

"Most of my life has been spent in hiding – either literally, behind this mask or from every other human being in my music. I'm not the kind of man you run across every day." He hesitated. "I'm not the kind of man you must usually associate with."

"No, I've never known anyone like you."

He nodded and started to rise, but she held onto his hand. "You have all of my esteem, Erik. You are a genius, and everything about you moves me – including what you've told me tonight."

He disentangled his hand from hers and got up. "Chinese or Italian?"

She sighed at the sudden distance he'd put between them. "I could go for some spaghetti."

He smiled at her. "How unoriginal."

"I'm not feeling very original tonight. If you had rocky road ice cream, I'd be in there with a spoon." She nodded toward the kitchen.

"Sorry," he said, still smiling. "No rocky road. There might be some vanilla. I'm a man of simple tastes."

She looked around. "Yeah, you seem to be partial to black, white and red. You have something against pastels?"

"I like austere, yet passionate."

The way he said it – 'passionate' – put her in a completely different frame of mind, and she let her eyes rove over him. When she looked back up at him, she knew her longing was in her gaze and she didn't care.

But his cool mask had returned. "I'll grab a menu," he said. "I know a great place that delivers."

The next day Christine took advantage of her first Saturday in the city to stock her kitchen. She'd selected a ton of everything and arranged to have it delivered. There was no way she could have carried it all. She refused to examine how many of her purchases had been made with the lingering thought of having Erik over for dinner.

No sooner had she closed the door and taken her shoes off, than someone was knocking.

She looked out the peep hole, but she saw flowers instead of groceries.

She opened the door, and Erik peeked over a tremendous bouquet of daffodils, tulips, carnations, and baby's breath. It was beautiful.

"Erik?" she asked.

"They're not from me," he responded quickly. "The delivery man just didn't want to leave them sitting in the hallway. I assured him I could be trusted."

She took the vase from him and went further into her apartment, sensing him trailing after her. Setting the huge vase on her coffee table, she picked up the card.

"Oh, god," she said, after reading the words printed on the tiny piece of paper.

In a moment, Erik was by her side. "What's the matter?"

"It's our eleventh anniversary – mine and Raoul's. I'd forgotten."

She saw him look down at the bouquet and scowl. "Do you want to keep them? I'll be happy to take them down to the trash chute for you."

"No, no," she said. "I'll keep them. It was nice of him to remember."

"Hmph. He should have sent roses. You should only ever get roses – big, red ones. Roses for a diva."

She laughed. "I think flowers may say more about the sender than the recipient." She put a hand against his unmasked cheek. "You, my dear Erik, are definitely a red rose."

He stepped back. "Does that mean your husband is a daffodil?"

She couldn't hold back a peal of laughter. "Perhaps," she acknowledged. "You two couldn't be more different, that's certain."

"I guess he's beautiful? Your little lordling?"

She paused and thought. "Yes, he's very handsome. Tall, blond, nice green eyes."

Erik said nothing, and she had a passing thought that he sounded just a tad jealous. She felt guilty when the thought pleased her.

"Do you still love him?"

Ouch. The question actually physically pained her. "I suppose I always will," she said. "In a way. He's a good man."

Erik stepped away from her and began backing toward the door. "I assume we'll skip tonight?"

She nodded. "Yes, lets. I need to call him before it gets too late, and I don't imagine I'll feel like singing after that."

"I understand," he said.

She shook her head. "I doubt it."

"Christine?" Raoul answered on the third ring.

"Hi, Raoul. I got the flowers. Thank you for remembering."

"As if I'd forget. You were my life for the last eleven years. Nothing will ever change that."

"Please," she said. "Let's don't."

He paused. "I've been worried about you. I've tried calling you the last two nights and got no answer." He sighed into the phone. "Have you been out? Are you drinking again?"

She laughed, grateful that his worries sounded so over done, so remote from reality. "No. I'm not," she said. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm doing well. My new job is going well, and…I've started singing again."

"Really?" His shock was obvious. "Where? I mean…just at home?"

"Yes," she lied. She wasn't ready to share Erik.

"Well that's…that's great, Christine."

"Thank you. New York seems to agree with me."

"It certainly seems like being free of me agrees with you."

"Raoul…don't. None of this was your fault."

"And it wasn't yours, Christine. You could just never see that."

She remembered the look in his eyes when he thought she couldn't see. She wasn't the only one who couldn't see that.

"I miss you," he said.

She opened her mouth to repeat the words, but they wouldn't come. "Thanks again for the flowers, Raoul. And for checking on me. I really am doing well."

He sighed. "I'm glad." He didn't sound glad. "I'll let you go. Sing something for me."

"I will," she promised and a second later, hung up the phone on her past.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

There was another note shoved under her door when Christine got home on Sunday. The weather was warm for fall, and she'd decided to walk around the city – just meander and see what she could see. She'd have loved to invite Erik, but she had the distinct impression it would just make him uncomfortable.

As it was, she decided she loved everything about the city, chiefly its people. There were just so many of them – it was impossible to not find something to like. Even the ones who bumped into her with rude comments as she stood staring up at the canyons of skyscrapers seemed to impart a sense of life to her.

So she opened the note with a light heart, and it grew lighter still. Erik wanted to meet. Not until eleven, though. And the note said to bring a jacket.

She pulled ingredients from her newly stocked cabinets and fridge and made a light pasta for dinner. Then she sat down with the novel she'd picked up at the Strand bookstore and kept one eye on the clock until it was time to see Erik.

She had the requested jacket in her hand when she knocked on his door. He opened it, and she felt her smile widen at the unadulterated look of excitement he wore.

"Come," he said, closing his door and taking her hand. In the other hand he carried his violin case. "I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?"

He was pulling her toward the elevator. "It's at Lincoln Center. We'll just be walking a few blocks."

Their apartment building was several blocks behind Lincoln Center, down near the river. Christine put on her jacket when they stepped outside and nodded a greeting to the doorman. She noticed he didn't greet Erik.

But Erik was too high to notice. He was practically bouncing as they walked.

They came up behind the Metropolitan Opera building, and Erik pulled her around a dark corner to stand in front of what looked like a supply entrance door. Before she could blink, he'd dropped her hand and inserted a gold key into the lock. It turned, he stepped back, pulled her behind him and launched them both into the darkness inside. She heard the door slam shut and then Erik fumbling along the wall for a light switch.

When the overhead came on, they were standing in what looked like a warehouse receiving dock. Shelves lined with boxes stretched down both sides of the hall in front of her.

"It's the back of the storage area," he explained. "Come on." He grabbed her hand again and dragged her forward, past boxes, costumes covered in dust, old scenery, and finally what looked like scenery that was actually in use. He took a quick right down another hallway, parted a curtain, and Christine found herself standing on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera house. Only the security lights were on, but the auditorium stretched out vast before her. She opened her mouth, but could find no words.

She looked over and saw Erik hop down into the orchestra pit. He dragged a chair up to the conductor's dais and took his violin out of its case.

"What would you like to sing, Christine?" he asked. He played a few bars of the aria from _Hannibal_ as a warm up.

"No, wait," she said as he stopped. "I'll sing that."

Erik began again, and she joined him on her cue. She felt his eyes on her, and she put all her skill into a perfect execution.

But it wasn't the execution she was focused on. Raoul had asked her to sing something for him, and so she did. The perfect aria; the perfect goodbye.

Erik slowly let his bow and violin drop. "God, you're beautiful," he said. "You're incomparable."

She looked around the empty hall, feeling her soul rise to back up the smile on her face. "Are you going to tell me how you got us in here?" she asked.

He laughed. "I'd rather not. It wasn't by strictly ethical means."

"You shouldn't add to your sins on my behalf."

"It wasn't on your behalf," he said. "It was strictly for the satiation of my own desire to hear you sing here. If I have my way, I'll someday be able to buy a ticket to hear you sing here."

She shook her head. "My opera days are behind me."

"Your opera days are ahead of you. You just don't know it yet." He raised his violin. "What else?"

"What would you like to hear?" she asked. "I'll sing whatever you want."

A pained expression crossed his face. "Sing the aria from _Tristan_ for me. I've been dying to hear you sing it again."

She cocked her head at him. "You only had to ask."

"I'm asking now."

True, deep, abiding love – a love full of passion and flame – that was the song. She sang it the only way she knew how – by imagining a love with Erik. She'd imagined loving his music when she'd sung it to him that first night in her bedroom. Now she imagined loving the man, the music, the mystery – all of it. She kept her gaze fixed to his and sang a song about the kind of love she'd never known. In lieu of experience, she substituted imagination and hope. She wanted Erik to hear that kind of love in her voice. As her tutor, he'd insist on nothing less. She hoped the man in him wanted to hear it, too.

When the last note died, he stood staring at her, not moving.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, suddenly tentative. Had she made him uncomfortable?

"That was exquisite," he said. She heard tears in his voice, though he was too far away for her to see. "Your voice enchants me. It makes me want to be more than I am" He hesitated. "It makes me want us to be more than we are."

There was no mistaking his meaning. He came toward her and hefted himself back up onto the stage, taking ever so much care with his instrument. To her surprise, he left bow and violin lying on the stage as he came over to her.

Taking both her hands in his, he knelt down in front of her. "I know I'm not the kind of man you want, Christine, but, for what it's worth, I'm forever your servant. Use me as you will." He kissed the back of her palm.

"Erik," she pleaded, trying to pull him to her. "Please, get up."

He shook his head and kept his eyes trained on the floor. "I've only known you a week, but I can't imagine never hearing you sing again. I have no grounds to beg you not to leave me, but beg I will. Now that I've found you, I can't give you up. I won't."

"Stand up, Erik."

He looked up at her and then moved to obey, his blue eyes never leaving her dark ones.

"Will you put your arms around me?" she asked.

He stood stock still.

"You said to use you as I would. I'd like you to put your arms around me."

He looked at her as if he couldn't hear the words she was speaking, but he moved a step closer. When that was all he managed, Christine closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. She laid her head against his chest and heard his heart hammering. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for the most wonderful gift I've ever been given."

His arms came up and wrapped slowly around her, being ever so gentle. Strong fingers touched her back through her jacket and shirt. She sighed against him, wishing for fewer layers.

"You're welcome." He backed up before the words were fully past his lips. "You're very welcome."

He went to pick up his violin, but looked up at her as he bent over. "Better than flowers?" he asked.

Christine laughed, but refused to answer. He already knew the answer.

They snuck back out the way they'd come, and Christine interlaced her fingers with his on the way back. Erik looked at her with a puzzled expression, but he didn't pull back from the contact.

When they were back at her door, she decided to be bold. "Will you come in with me?" she asked. "Will you come to bed with me?"

His eyes widened.

"Not for…well, not for that. I just meant I'd like to…well, sleep next to you. I'd like you to hold me. I want to be close to you."

He didn't say anything, and Christine couldn't catalog all the emotions that flitted across his face.

Finally, he shook his head. "I can't."

She frowned. "Can't?"

His eyes dropped to the floor. "I can't sleep in the mask."

"Oh."

Silence wove a net between them.

"I'll say goodnight," he said. "Thank you for one of the best nights of my life."

Christine nodded, thinking that it could have been even better. Would he never be comfortable with her in the way she wanted?

A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her. Had he never been with anyone in that way before? She shuddered at the thought of a life led without intimacy, without touch.

On an impulse, she stepped close to him once more and laid her hand against his exposed cheek. Before he could react, she stood up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

He didn't react, and she just lingered, letting her skin touch his.

When she pulled back, he looked at her as if she'd hurt him. "Christine," he whispered, "please don't."

"Don't what, Erik? Was it so terrible?"

He swallowed hard. "Don't tease me with what I can never have. You have no idea how I long for what you seem to offer."

She leaned back to look at him. "Has it occurred to you that if it's on offer, it's certainly not something you can't have? I don't understand."

"You've given me gifts tonight that I can never repay. Can't we just leave it at that? We have music, Christine. I can ask for nothing more."

She thought she was beginning to understand. He didn't think he was worthy of her. How cruel life had been to teach him that lesson – that he had no worth outside his music. "You can ask for whatever you wish, Erik, but I won't push you. Ask me in your own time."

"Has it never occurred to you to wonder what's underneath the mask?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course."

"I'll never show you. I couldn't do that to you. If you saw me as I am, it would kill whatever is between us. You'd leave me."

She stepped back. "I think you underestimate the hold you have on me. Your voice invades my mind even when you're not here. I can't escape it, and I don't want to."

"Then let me give you my voice, and be happy with that. It's all I have to offer."

She shook her head. "That's not true, but if you believe it, we'll get no further on the subject."

She took out her key and turned away from him. "Good night, Erik."

The next day, the first bouquet arrived mid-way through Astia's lesson. Astia was not a morning person, and she hadn't managed to get up to speed until about half an hour into their efforts. Christine wanted to lecture her about devotion to her art, but she knew Astia's heart wasn't in it. Julliard wasn't her dream.

But the girl's lethargy seemed to disappear when the three dozen red roses came through the door of Christine's small class room.

"Wow," she exclaimed. "You sure made an impression on someone, Ms. Daae." She waggled her dark eyebrows at her teacher. "I guess I don't have to ask what you were up to last night."

Christine felt herself blush, and she hastily directed the delivery boy to put the flowers on the windowsill.

Her classroom was narrow and long. The piano and one chair took up most of its width, but a long row of windows ran the length of one side, making it seem less claustrophobic.

She thanked the delivery boy and turned back to her pupil.

"Aren't you going to read the card?"

Christine shook her head. "There's no card."

Astia laughed. "But you know who they're from. Go, teach."

"It's not like that. Erik is a dear friend. I think he's afraid he upset me."

"I wish I had friends like that." She looked again at the huge arrangement. "Somehow that just doesn't say 'friend' to me. I think your 'dear friend' is in love with you."

She turned back to Christine. "Haven't you only been here a week or two? How'd you get a man like that overnight?"

Christine sighed, wondering how long this discussion was going to last. "He's a musician," she said. "It's not that hard to meet musicians in the middle of Lincoln Center."

Astia nodded. "Well, don't settle down too soon. This city's full of eligible bachelors – most of whom make more money than musicians."

"Astia!"

"What?" She laughed. "Just because I want to be a pop singer doesn't mean I can't have a backup plan."

Christine shook her head. "Well, let's get back to work on Plan A, shall we?"

The next two batches of roses arrived during her second and third lessons, respectively, and caused a similar uproar, except that Kee wanted to know if it was another student trying to get a better grade out of her. He had a competitive streak. After reassuring him that no one was outdoing him, he was content to resume practice without further comment.

Christine showed up for practice precisely at eight, and Erik let her in with a sweep of his arm.

"The flowers weren't necessary, you know," she said, turning to him.

He smiled. "I wanted to be sure you'd come tonight."

"There's very little that could keep me away. I think you know that."

"I wanted to be sure."

"Well, you delighted my students, that's for sure. Astia thinks I'm some sex goddess who's seduced a musician with one night of fabulous love making."

He laughed. "She clearly doesn't appreciate the power of music."

"Let's get started?"

He went eagerly to the piano and began warming up. He led her through three glissandos before starting an aria from Tosca.

During his interlude, they both heard the sound of knocking, but it was coming from next door – her door.

She shrugged her shoulders at him and went to look out into the hallway.

A tall, blond man stood there, banging on her door.

"Raoul," she whispered.

He turned. "Christine? I thought you were number twelve. I'm glad your neighbor wasn't home."

He strode over and hugged her, but she was too shocked to respond. "You look well," he said, pulling back.

She felt it when Erik came to stand behind her.

"What the…?" Raoul exclaimed.

"Raoul, this is Erik." She turned slightly in his direction. "Erik, this is my ex-husband."

"Charmed," Erik droned without offering his hand.

"I do live in number twelve, Raoul. Erik and I were practicing. He's a musician."

"Oh. Well, I've come to talk to you. Can you cut your session short?"

She nodded and turned to Erik. "Tomorrow night?" she asked.

He stood still, but then nodded and retreated into his apartment.

She looked at Raoul and saw him shiver. "My god," he said. "What was that?"

"That was my neighbor. What's your problem?"

"That mask. It's horrible. And what must be underneath. It's not natural."

Strange. She'd never thought the mask unnatural on Erik.

"Can we go inside?" Raoul asked.

Christine opened her door and let them both in. "I can't say how surprised I am," she said. "Why are you in New York?"

"Well, I'll just say it. I want you back, Christine. These last months without you have been torture. You're a part of my life, and I want you back."

"You want what we had before. That's not possible anymore."

"But look how much better you are! Surely we could try to get things back?"

"So you've just dropped everything to come and woo me back?"

He nodded. "Nothing is as important as you."

Did she owe it to them both to try? she wondered.

"You don't have to decide right now. Have dinner with me tomorrow. We'll start over at the beginning."

Dinner. She could do dinner. "Alright," she said. "But I have to be back by eight to practice with Erik."

Raoul shook his head. "You can't possibly enjoy spending time with him. How can you even look at him?"

She shrugged. "The mask really doesn't bother me." She felt a smile coming on. "And, Raoul, he's a prodigy – easily the best musician I've ever known. Singing with him is…well, it's like paradise."

"I'm glad I came," Raoul said. "You're too easily influenced. You're just getting back on your feet, and you're letting this man manipulate you. You don't need a fiend to practice your singing."

"Don't call him that. He's a friend."

"You can make better friends, Christine."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

"Can I come listen to your session?" Raoul asked when Christine insisted for the third time that she couldn't come back to his hotel for coffee because she had to practice.

"No, absolutely not. Erik is very private. For obvious reasons, I would think."

"But I'm just supposed to walk away and leave my wife alone with him?"

"Not your wife anymore. You don't have that claim on me, and I'm leaving." She got up and dropped her napkin on the table.

Before Raoul could object further, she was on her way out the door and in a cab back to her apartment building.

Erik opened his door before she could knock a second time. She saw his shoulders relax as he looked at her.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," he said.

She smiled at him, wanting to soothe his anxiety. She thought she had an inkling of what he was feeling right now, and she didn't want that for him. "You won't get rid of me that easily," she joked. "It will take more than one ex-husband to pry me away."

He stepped back to let her in. "How is he?" he asked. "Is he here to stay?"

"I don't know," she said, dropping her jacket over the back of his sofa. "He says he wants me back – wants us to start over." She turned to him. "I had dinner with him tonight."

Erik nodded stiffly. "I see."

She laughed. "I'm sure you don't, when I don't even see myself."

"Don't you want your old life back?"

His words stopped her in her tracks when no answer came readily to her tongue. "It seems I really don't," she said finally. "I'm enjoying making my own way here."

"But he's been your life for a decade."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you really pleading his case?"

"Not at all. Just trying to figure out where we stand in all this. Where I stand."

"We'll carry on as we have been. I won't give that up. Not even for Raoul."

"So I'll still see you every night?"

She nodded. "We may have to skip weekends – if I decide I'm really going to give my marriage another chance."

"I understand."

She looked at him and let her longing show on her face. "No, you really don't."

He turned from her to make his way to the piano. "I'll only ask one thing, Christine."

She took her place and looked at him. "What's that?"

"That you only sing for me. Not for him – never for him."

She smiled gently at him. "I can do that."

She saw him visibly relax once more, and he began to play.

The next day at work, she tried not to think of either of them and focus on her students, but it wasn't easy. Raoul's sudden intrusion was so unexpected, and nine dozen blossoming red roses meant Erik was never far from her thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Astia asked about an hour into her session. "You haven't been paying attention all morning."

Christine shook her head. "I'm sorry. Let's begin again."

"Man trouble?"

She couldn't help but smile. "Is it that obvious?"

Astia gestured at the roses. "What trouble could you have with a guy like that?"

"That he sees himself only as my tutor?"

Astia barked out a laugh. "Red roses don't come from tutors."

"Maybe you're right, but he pushes me away." She sighed, giving in to her desire to talk to someone. "And now my ex-husband is in town. He wants a fresh start."

Astia wrinkled her nose. "Well, that does complicate things. No wonder you can't concentrate. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off – and go see whichever of them you want. Maybe who you want to be with today is who you want to be with for good."

Christine looked at her black-clad student. "Maybe you should be a shrink. I think you might have missed your calling."

"How old are you anyway?" she asked. "How long can you have been married to the guy?"

"We were married for ten years," she answered. "I married him when I was eighteen."

Astia wrinkled her nose again. "I wouldn't trade your eighteen for mine. There's a lot to be said for playing the field."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. I was a child when I married Raoul."

"Raoul? Oh, that's right. I forgot you were French. Then again, they say the French are good lovers. Maybe you should give him another chance. Or just have some break-up sex."

Christine shuddered. "That would be a very bad idea."

"Not that great in the sack? Dump him. Again."

"It's not quite that simple. We made vows that were supposed to be for life. If we could be happy again…"

"You'll never be happy until you know what Mr. Red Roses has to offer. Keep hubby on ice until you find out."

Christine smiled. "You're a very practical girl."

"I like you. You shouldn't have to settle."

Christine decided to take Astia's advice and cancel her other two classes.

With some trepidation, she knocked on Erik's door. He opened it wearing black jeans and a dark blue linen shirt that hung unbuttoned off his broad shoulders. His mask today was black instead of the usual white.

"Christine," he said. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright?"

She nodded. "Everything's fine. I just decided to take an early afternoon and see if you wanted to have lunch with me."

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, you know, that meal in between breakfast and supper."

"I'm familiar with the concept. I'm just surprised. I would have thought you'd want to be with your husband."

"I would have thought so, too," she admitted. "Turns out I wanted to be with you."

He held out a hand to her, and she took it gently, moving toward him as he pulled her close. She laid her hands on his shirt and fought back the desire to touch his skin.

"Christine," he whispered, blue eyes searing into her.

When he lowered his head, she eagerly met him halfway.

At first, their kiss was just like the other night – a pressing of lips to lips. Christine moved her mouth against his and felt him begin to follow her lead. The warmth of him enveloped her, and she let passion drive her mouth and tongue to explore his with abandon. He met her at every turn with desire, and she heard herself give a soft moan.

That seemed to bring Erik back to his senses, and he pulled away from her, pulling her closer and resting his chin on the top of her head. "God, Christine," he said. "I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm not."

"I'm not sorry."

He leaned back and looked at her. "I don't know how to ask this, but…you seem to want me, Christine. How is that possible? Am I just imagining it? I want it so badly to be true."

"It breaks my heart to hear you doubt me. I wouldn't be here with you, like this, if I didn't want you. When have I ever given you reason to believe I don't?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know what it all means. I…I've never been in this situation before. Women generally run from me. Everyone generally runs from me."

Christine felt her heart break a little more. "I'm not running from you, Erik. Quite the contrary, I think I want more than you're willing to give."

"I don't know how to give. I only know how to want, and I want you so much I ache with it. You haunt my thoughts."

"Then let me give to you."

"What do you mean?"

"You can leave the mask on. Take off your shirt."

He looked at her strangely, but hastened to comply, letting the fine fabric drop to the floor behind him.

Christine stepped back to look at him, postponing for just a moment her desire to touch. He was exquisite, naturally muscular where men should be muscular, with a flat stomach that tempted her to reach out.

She started by laying her hands on the warm skin of his chest that she'd wanted to touch earlier. From there, she caressed his shoulders and arms, just running her hands lightly over his skin. Stepping free of his embrace, she moved on to his back, but caught her breath.

Long, white scars covered his smooth flesh.

"My god, Erik. What happened to you?"

He stiffened. "Miss Toller and her hickory switch. She was something of a sadist where I was concerned, punishing me until I bled for wrongs real and imagined."

Christine put her hands on him and traced the network of marks, wishing her touch could heal all the damage – both external and internal. She began to rain kisses across his shoulders, then made her way back to stand in front of him and continued kissing her way down his chest.

She could hear Erik's labored breathing as she dropped to her knees.

"What are you doing?" he asked as her hands went to the button of his jeans.

"Giving you what you need."

He groaned as she pulled his jeans down and took him in her hand.

"Christ," he ground out.

She licked softly at its tip, and he hissed out a long breath. "Do that again."

She smiled and took him into her mouth, watching as his eyes closed and his head fell back. She began to move and he groaned again and shoved a hand into her hair.

"That feels so good," he said. "Please don't stop."

She released him long enough to shake her head, and then put her mouth on him again. He was delicious, she thought dazedly, realizing just how wet servicing him was making her. God, she wanted him. But, baby steps. Her lover needed to be touched.

"Christine."

She heard the tone of caution in his voice.

"I won't stop," she said. "Use me. Let me do this for you."

She sucked him back into her mouth, and he cried out, pulling her head forward. "God," he groaned.

He began to move with her, not forcing her, but meeting her motions until he cried out again, coming further into her mouth. She swallowed him down with abandon, wanting every part of him.

When she released him and stood, she could see tears streaming down the unmasked side of his face.

She looked down and zipped him back into his pants, giving him a moment.

He waited for her to meet his gaze, and then he crushed her to him. "Please don't leave me," he whispered. "Nothing has hurt me like you could hurt me."

Then he kissed her until she clung to him again, breathless with wanting, but she knew he could go no further just yet. The wounds on his heart were too raw.

"I believe you came here to tempt me with lunch," he said over the top of her head. She could hear the smile in his voice and laughed in return.

"How about a picnic? It's nice out, and the lawn wasn't crowded when I came up."

"I've never had a picnic."

"Well, today's your lucky day. Let me go pack up some sandwiches and find a blanket. Give me ten minutes."

He nodded and let her go. She missed his warmth, but turned and left for her own apartment to see to her task.

Ten minutes later, Erik was knocking on her door, and she handed him the blanket to carry. He was looking at her like she was a goddess. She realized that was something she could get used to.

And he was smiling. That was also something she could get used to, she thought.

When they found a spot on the green lawn that sloped down from their building to the edge of the river, Erik spread out the blanket, and Christine took sandwiches and two sodas out of her bag.

"Nothing fancy," she said. "Just ham and cheese. I expect you have finer tastes."

He laughed. "Maybe of late, but I grew up in an orphanage. I'm not unacquainted with sandwiches."

"Well reminding you of your past is the last thing I wanted to do."

He shook his head. "Nothing you could do would remind me of that."

They ate and watched the water. A barge came by, towed by a tug boat, and they marked its progress in companionable silence.

"What do you look like without your mask?" Christine asked, not sure about her sudden desire to know.

Erik sighed. "I wish you wouldn't ask. But the best description I can give is that I look like a statue – one that's been worn away by storms and wind until it's barely recognizable."

Christine nodded.

"Does that make you feel differently about me? It must."

She thought for a long moment. "I don't think so. I'd like to think I'm not so shallow."

"It's not about being shallow. It's just human nature to recoil from the grotesque."

She gave a short laugh. "But it's the nature of women to find beautiful the things they love."

That word hung between them – Christine shocked to have uttered it and Erik obviously shocked to have heard it.

"Maybe one day," he said finally. "But I doubt there's love enough to make this face beautiful."

Christine felt suddenly nervous and found herself toying with the edge of the blanket.

"Maybe we could skip tonight?" Erik asked. "I feel like…I feel like I need time to…to process."

Christine looked at him and nodded. Her skittish lover. For that's what he was now. She'd give him space, but she wasn't going to let him forget it.

"You should have dinner with your husband," he said. "You can give him more time tonight."

"I'm not going to let you push me away, Erik."

"It's okay. I know I'm not the man for you. You deserve better than such a damaged carcass."

"Maybe I deserve better than a selfish, passionless marriage to a man who couldn't carry a tune if his life depended on it."

Erik laughed. "I'd sing to you forever if I thought it would keep you with me."

"I'm with you now, aren't I?"

"Yes," he said, looking over at her. "And I still can't believe it. And what you did earlier – I have no words, Christine."

"We don't need words. There'll be plenty of time to learn the words."

He shook his head. "I wish I could believe you."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

She did have dinner with Raoul that night, partly because he was insistent and partly because she wanted to test her feelings. Could what she felt for Erik really compete with the lingering love from her marriage?

But as Raoul talked of France, their estate and his mother's most recent social tidbits, she realized her love for him had changed as she'd grown from a child into a woman. Gerard had united them and kept love in their lives, but the bonds between them, as a man and a woman, had been weakening all those years, behind the scenes. The last two grief-stricken years had pushed everything else aside. She realized she cared for Raoul, but didn't love him – not in the way a woman could love a man who sent her nine dozen red roses. And she wanted that. She wanted the passion she knew Erik held for her. He could ignite her the way no one else ever had, and she wanted it. She wanted him.

She'd said 'love' just that afternoon. Were her lips running ahead of her heart or was her brain just running behind?

"You're not even listening, are you?" Raoul asked, putting down his dessert fork.

"I'm sorry. No, I was thinking about…work. One of my students is a real challenge. I want to expand her love of music, and I don't know how to go about it.

"Sing for her," he said. "No one can resist you when you sing." He smiled. "I know I couldn't."

She returned his smile. She remembered how he'd been at her first star performance. She'd been swept away by his sudden reappearance in her life and all the wonderful things he represented – security, gentleness, a home, a family, reputation, acceptance.

With Erik it wouldn't be nearly so easy to have some of those things. She'd have to be stronger to love him. Loving Raoul had never really required anything from her. And she'd only ever given him what he'd asked for – her gentlest affections, a child, a home. It was easy to meet Raoul's needs. He didn't seem to ever wonder if she might want more. She wondered if he had. Did he never crave passion in his life?

At that moment she knew she had to send him away. He deserved the same chance she was giving herself – to find out what he truly wanted in life. He was as young as she and had led the same sheltered life. Let him go explore all the riotous emotions the world had to offer.

She took his hand in hers. "It seems like a lifetime has passed since that night, Raoul. In a way, it has. Neither of us are the same star-struck children we were then. It's time we grew up. And I'm starting to grow up here. I don't want to leave."

"Then I'll move here, at least temporarily. We should grow up together, Christine – grow old together."

She shook her head. "That's not what I want anymore."

He looked at her. "You mean I'm not what you want anymore."

"No, not as a husband. I'll always be your friend."

Raoul drew back and sat up straight. "If you've really made up your mind, I'll go. But just tell me this has nothing to do with that monster that lives beside you. He hasn't influenced you, has he?"

She shook her head. "Beyond worrying that you would interrupt our practice sessions, he's not said anything against you. He's actually been pondering why I don't take you back."

"That makes two of us."

"I don't want to go backwards, Raoul. You're my past. I'm making my future here, in New York."

"And you don't want me in it."

"Your future is in France. I want you to live it to the fullest. You deserve a wife who loves you with her whole heart."

"When did it die?" he asked. "You loved me once."

"I don't really know," she said. "It's just that when I look for it now, it's not there. Only a kind regard remains. Maybe that's all there ever was and I was too young and foolish to know the difference."

Raoul stood and offered her his arm. "I'll walk you back," he said. "Then I'll get a flight out tomorrow."

Raoul bent down when they'd reached her door, and she allowed him to kiss her. His mouth lingered on hers, and she returned his kiss with gentle affection.

She heard Erik's door open while she was still in Raoul's embrace, and she hastily backed away.

"Excuse me," he said curtly. He brushed past them and went through the end door to the stairway.

"I hate leaving you here – next to that," Raoul said.

"You're not my keeper anymore. Go back home, Raoul."

He nodded and stepped away from her. "Please take care of yourself, Christine. Is it okay if I still call you sometimes?"

"Of course. I don't bear you any ill will. Call any time you want."

He nodded, turned and went to hit the elevator button. In a moment, both of the men in her life were gone.

Christine sagged against her door and let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Now she just had to gain Erik's trust. Again.

The next three nights he didn't open his door when she knocked promptly at eight. She could hear him playing; he just wouldn't let her in.

On the fourth night, she sat on the floor in her room and just listened. It was the only way she could think of to be close to him.

Then he started the aria from _Tristan_, and it brought tears to her eyes. That was his song – her song for him. She stood up and started to sing, just as she had on that very first night. With each note, she struggled to pour in all she felt for him – compassion, friendship, attraction, and – yes – love.

She ended the last note with a shuddering sigh. He couldn't keep her out forever.

Nevertheless, she was surprised at the knock on her door.

She opened it without looking to see who it was. There was only one person it could be. For a moment, she just drank in the sight of him – his lean body in an oxford shirt and faded jeans.

Then, before she knew what was happening, his arms were around her and he was kissing her like he never had before – like he was dying without her. She hoped so; she was dying without him.

She let her hands snake around his neck and entwine in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Minutes went by before he pulled away from her. "How can you do it?" he asked. "How can you sing that way for me and still let him touch you?"

"You don't know what you're saying. What you saw – that was our goodbye. Raoul is back in France. I sent him away."

She saw his eyes get wide. "You…really?"

"Really. If you hadn't been so stubborn I could have told you that three days ago."

"I was…hurt. Not surprised, but still hurt."

"I know. I'm sorry. I never want to hurt you."

"What do you want from me, Christine? Do you know?"

She laid her hands against his chest. "I want everything from you Erik – friendship, music…love."

His arms tensed around her. "I hear it, but I can't believe it."

"I know. But I have all the time in the world to prove it to you. I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't say that," he said, gesturing past her into her apartment. "Can we go in?"

She nodded and backed away. "What's the matter?"

"There's something you need to see. I've decided I'd rather lose you now than later."

She backed into her apartment and watched as he followed and shut the door.

"Will you turn on the rest of the lights?" he asked.

She reached past him and flicked the switch for the overhead in the hallway.

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up and removed the black mask. He also pulled off the dark wig she hadn't realized he wore.

All she could think was that his description had been only partly accurate. The right side of his face was marred all over with ridges and valleys and all of them looked enflamed. The skin under his right eye drooped ever so slightly and his hair was a dark blond, thin and wispy on the damaged side of his face.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"That's all you have to say?"

"That's all that leaps to mind, yes."

He stepped closer. "You can look horrified, Christine. You don't have to hide from me."

"It's you who've been hiding from me."

She stepped closer. "Can I touch?"

He drew back. "What?"

"I want to touch you. That hasn't changed."

"How can you possibly?"

"Will you let me?"

He nodded and leaned closer to her, and she ran her fingers over every raised surface, then down through every groove. It felt strange; the texture was rigid under her fingers. She stroked her hand through his hair, straightening it.

At some point, he'd closed his eyes.

"Look at me," she said.

He did as she requested, and she saw tears shimmering.

"I don't find you hideous or repulsive. I love you, mask or no mask."

"Christine, don't toy with me. Please. I can't bear it."

"Erik, do you really think I go around telling men I love them? Do you think I'd say it to you if I didn't mean it?"

"I don't want to believe that could be true. But I don't want you to say it out of pity. That's the last thing I want from you."

She put both hands on the side of his face. "You're infuriating, do you know that?"

She was happy to see a smile play about his lips. "And you're willing to settle for infuriating? That's one thing I can't promise I'll ever be less of."

"You're my friend, my muse, and my lover. I'll tolerate a little infuriating."

"How about impatient, high-handed and overbearing?"

She pressed a kiss to his lips. "That, too."

He hugged her close. "I want you, Christine. I don't care that you may have temporarily taken leave of your senses. I want to be with you." He leaned back to look at her. "You do have a bed in here somewhere?"

She grinned and nodded. "This way," she said, taking his hand and leading him down the short hall to her room.

Her king-sized bed had never looked so inviting. When she reached over to turn on the light, his hand stopped her.

"Not tonight," he said. "There's only so much I can take."

She nodded and led him further into the darkness.

Their coming together was hesitant at first, but she felt it when Erik gave in to his desire. He stripped her and ran his hands everywhere. The only light was what came in through the blinds, and it bathed everything in an icy blue. His eyes were even more ferocious than usual.

When she could take no more, she dragged him to the bed, but he wouldn't come with her completely. She saw him kneel down between her legs and knew a moment of pure lust.

When he tentatively put his mouth on her, she bucked her hips up to meet him. "Erik," she breathed.

His tongue came out to touch her, and she closed her eyes and felt only the marvelous sensation of having her lover so close. And then she was so close.

"Erik, please," she ground out. "Be with me. I want to feel you."

She felt him let out a long breath, but then he was moving over top of her. She drew him down for a kiss she couldn't control, and then he was between her legs, moving into the deepest part of her. She moaned into his mouth and matched him thrust for thrust.

It was only a few moments before she was gone, flying away from him at a million miles an hour, dissolving into a million pieces.

When he increased his pace, the pieces flew back together and she was with him once more. She gripped him tight and wrapped her legs completely around him as he surged forward and came into her with cry.

It was a long time before either of them spoke.

"I love you, Erik."

"I believe you," he replied. "And I love you more than I ever thought possible – even in all my dreams of what love could be, I never imagined you; I never imagined this."

She kissed him hard. "Now I'm going to have to spend all my time deciding whether I'd rather have you sing to me or make love to me."

Erik laughed. "I could probably manage both," he said. "With practice, of course."

She shivered, and he groaned at the movement.

"Don't joke," she said. "You have no idea how it arouses me to hear you sing."

He hummed the first few bars of a pop song about enduring love and then sang the chorus low in her ear.

She took deep, steadying breaths and gulped when she felt him grow hard again inside her.

"There may be something to this," he said.

She ran her hands down his back to his delicious ass and pulled him closer. "Don't you dare leave me after that," she demanded.

He began to move within her once more, and this time it was a slow, languorous testament to love that left them both teary-eyed and breathless.

Christine couldn't believe they were breaking into the opera house a second time. And this time there were five of them. Astia, Sandy, and Kee brought up the rear as Erik shoved her inside and told her to stop worrying.

She'd been wondering how to better reach her students, and Erik had come up with this plan. Everyone except Sandy had been all for it. She was a little more concerned about getting arrested than her two counterparts.

Once on the stage, the three kids sat cross-legged down front, while Erik resumed his seat in the conductor's place. Christine did the Tristan aria alone, and then she and Erik did the love song together.

There was clapping when it was over, and Christine drew her focus away from her love to her students.

Astia was the first to stand. "Now I get it," she said. "I think I get why you do this. It's powerful."

Kee and Sandy nodded.

Kee looked over at Erik. "Thank you," he said. "I hope I can be a fraction as good as you one day."

Erik looked strangely humbled.

Even Sandy was wearing a beaming smile. "That was so beautiful," she said. "You must sing for us more."

"I'll sing more during our sessions, but there's only one person I sing for." She looked at Erik, who gazed back at her with a smile.

Astia laughed. "I was so right," she said. "Mr. Red Roses is awesome."

_fin_


End file.
